Surviving Sherlock
by EphemeralxEternity
Summary: It was on an uncharacteristically sunny November day that Molly Hooper realized she had an unfortunate weakness for men of the tall, dark and handsome persuasion. Teen!Lock. Sherlock/Molly. Prompt fill from OTP Bootcamp Challenge.
1. 01: Weakness

Chapter 1: Weakness

* * *

It was on an uncharacteristically sunny November day that Molly Hooper realized she had an unfortunate weakness for men of the tall, dark and handsome persuasion.

This was when the living embodiment of the male counterpart in her daytime – and if she was being honest, all of her – fantasies strode into the classroom, glanced nonchalantly around and sat himself down calmly in the empty seat in front of her. Coincidentally, this was also the moment she realized that her grades were going to take a beating.

Granted, from the quick peek she took as he sauntered towards the desk, his handsomeness was a bit strange, but in its irregularity was its beauty. She glimpsed his aristocratically high cheekbones and impossibly clear blue eyes. Those eyes were perfect for drowning in. Was it possible for year 12 students to look like the love child of the Greek god Apollo and a hot alien?

Breathe Molly. Remember to breathe. Breathing is good.

She sucked in all the air that her lungs could hold, recognizing that it was the first breath she took since she clapped her eyes on this boy. Placing her palms on the table in front of her to steady herself, she tucked her head down slightly, shut her eyes and tried to discreetly regain control of her renegade lungs.

"Are you quite alright?"

She was noticed. She failed.

Her head popped back up, wide brown eyes trying their very best to belie the sexual turmoil she found herself in. It was him. He was speaking to her.

Speak Molly. Words. English. French. Afrikaans. Anything.

"Yes I'm fine," she managed to squeak out.

What she hoped was a reassuring smile followed her statement after a pause, but all it did was elicit a cocked eyebrow from Mr. Fantasy. Oh god, wrong word choice. She felt her cheek and ears go scarlet at the thought.

"Your breathing is irregular, your face and neck are flushed and you're beginning to sweat. Do you have any history of deep vein thrombosis? Because you may be suffering from an onset pulmonary embolism. Which, if not treated immediately, may be fatal. Or you could be having an allergic reaction to the prolonged exposure to lead based paint, which," He regarded the walls with disdain while continuing his rapid-fire rationalization. "If the dreadful shade of yellow is any indication, this institution is using in an attempt to cheer up this godforsaken hell hole."

He looked down at her expectantly, waiting for a response.

"Pul – pulmon –? What? Pardon?" Smooth, Hooper. Smooth.

"Pulmonary embolism," He spoke slowly, enunciating the words as if speaking to a small child. Molly, stop looking at his lips. "It's when you have – "

He had caught the quick movements of her eyes down to his mouth and back up again.

Damn.

Peering at her face with squinted eyes, he continued his observations.

"Your eyes are extremely dilated. Are you on dru –" As if a sudden realization crossed his mind, his features reassembled from curiosity to a portrait of disinterest. "Never mind."

He straightened up and whipped around to face the front of the class, just in time to see Mr. Owens, the portly history teacher, walk into the room, trusty coffee cup in hand.

An abrupt snort of laughter came from Molly's right. It would seem that her friend Mary had been scrutinizing the exchange furtively. She chortled under her breath in the most indelicate manner, her shoulders carelessly heaving. Molly glared at her, willing her own eyes to form laser beams, before her forehead slumped onto the table in front of her with a soft thump. _Would that this table were a time traveling table_, she thought with a groan.

"Ms. Hooper, are you quite alright?" The same question, but coming from Mr. Owens, carried more emotion and concern than Handsome Face Cheekbones Boy's entire monologue did.

Molly cleared her throat and tried her second attempt to smile in the past two minutes, but only managed a weird sort of grimace.

"Yes, sir. I'm alright," she tried to recharge her 15% grin. "Thank you."

Unconvinced, with worry lines etching between his grey eyebrows, he gently offered to give her a pass for the nurse's office.

It was then that Curly Haired Hottie deigned to speak again, and while she couldn't see his face, Molly would later swear he was wearing the most obnoxiously condescending smirk.

"She only had an orgasm," He explained calmly. "Some girls are able to do that, did you know? Mentally give themselves a physical orgasm."

The class erupted in a din of guffaws and cat-calls. Mr. Owens looked flabbergasted and was almost as embarrassed as Molly. She sunk so low in her seat, her posture so aggressively poor, that for a moment she feared she was developing scoliosis. But she was determined to take up as little space as possible, trying to condense her body till she disappeared into a tiny point and thus proving the big bang theory in one fell swoop – well it's reverse at least.

"That's quite enough!" The rotund teacher tried to regain control of the rowdy 16 year olds, which any secondary school educator knows is a task easier said than done. Come to think of it, no one ever said it was easy. Poor Mr. Owens damned their raging hormones. All that testosterone and estrogen and lord knows what else. He should have paid more attention in biology. "Class, that is quite enough! Young man, what is your name?"

"Holmes, sir," The boy replied languidly. "Sherlock Holmes."

"To the headmaster's office with you! I won't have that sort of language in my classroom," Mr. Owen's jowls were shaking violently. "Out!"

The boy stretched his legs out lazily and proceeded to push himself off the chair, grabbing his notebook and pen in the process. The only sort of school supplies he brought with him, Molly noted. From her vantage point with her chin on the table, Molly saw him turn slightly and give the class a jaunty salute before he disappeared around the corner of the doorframe.

* * *

Molly didn't see him again till the end of the day.

She stopped to tie her shoelaces in front of the school's main entrance when she spotted him – Sherl... something or other – arguing under one of the oak trees on the school's lawn with a man that looked to be in his mid twenties.

The man was wearing a crisp black suit and shiny leather looking shoes, appearing very official and very much like an angry parental figure. Though he was clearly too young to be the boy's father. Brother, then? Or uncle?

"You can't keep firing your mouth off like a goddamn cannon every time someone asks you a question, Sherlock!" The man castigated, his hands emphasizing the word 'cannon' with a violent upward motion.

Sherlock, that's his name.

Molly untied and retied her shoes, trying to assuage her conscience that she wasn't eavesdropping. Clearly, she was.

The man continued with his chastisement.

"It's your first day here. This is the third school in two years. Don't make Mummy have to put you in a fourth," A warning tone colored his voice. "You can be thankful that I was allowed to leave work early. I know you don't want Father to be the one to deal with the headmaster."

Sherlock responded with silent belligerence, shoving his hands in the pocket of his trousers. The man sighed and smoothed out his suit jacket. He glanced towards the main gate and motioned with a subtle jerk of his head for Sherlock to follow him.

"You go. I'm going out for a smoke," Sherlock spat out. "Oh and Mycroft, you can tell Mummy whatever the hell you please, but just know. I. Didn't. Do. Anything. I merely said what I deduced."

The man named Mycroft, who was probably Sherlock's brother, rolled his eyes, saying, "Yes, but you can't just say these things. These plebeians get so touchy when you draw conclusions about them." He paused, eyeing the throng of students heading home. "Be back by supper. You know how Mummy worries about you."

He left after a final look consisting of pursed lips and raised eyebrows.

Without shifting from his spot in the shade of the tree, Sherlock turned his head to the side and locked his angry eyes on Molly Hooper.

* * *

_AN: Welcome! _

_This was inspired by the OTP Boot Camp Challenge started by Exceeds Samspectations __(and in her words, "shamelessly stolen from the multitude of Boot Camps in the HPFC forum that originated from Gamma Orionis' OTP Boot Camp") on the BBC Sherlock Fanfiction Challenges forum. _

_The prompt is the chapter title. This will - hopefully - be a series of interconnected snapshots of Sherlock and Molly growing up._

_And yes, I'm aware that Sherlock is supposed to be older, but I'm going to take some artistic liberties with their ages. Go with the flow, my friends. :)_

_Also, kudos to you if you caught the references __I snuck in here!  
(One is from _Community and the other from John Green's book, The Fault In Our Stars.)

_With love,_

_Skye aka EphemeralxEternity _


	2. 02: Bruises

_AN: If you received another update, it's because I replaced this chapter. Sorry for the confusion!  
__Now before we begin, **Trigger Warning – blood and physical abuse**.__  
_

* * *

Chapter 02: Bruises

* * *

"And then he just looked at me, like it was my fault," Molly mumbled around a mouth full of chips. Mary glanced down to the dwindling pile while Molly grabbed another one from the paper cup sitting between them on the park bench, chewing furiously. This was their usual Sunday afternoon ritual. Chips in Hyde Park.

Except, for Mary, it was more along the lines of watching Molly eat chips in Hyde Park.

"Go on," Mary said. While Molly's eyes were on the fixed on some point in the blue lake sprawled in front of them, Mary carefully scooted the cup closer to herself.

"I wasn't even doing anything!" Molly erupted, hands flinging up. A few birds flapped their wings away from their perch on the railing bordering the lake. "And the way he just _assumed_ things and publicly humiliated me in class, ugh – " Without warning, she stood up and declared, "I should give him a piece of my mind."

"You should," Mary replied. She picked up a chip and pointed it at the agitated girl. "On Monday, after history. You should give that git a few choice words. Unless you have any other class with him?"

"Chemistry," she answered, still facing the lake, arms akimbo. "But that's on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Monday's better – it's right before break too."

Molly sat back down, a fierce sort of determination shining in her eyes.

"Okay, I'm going to do it. It's going to happen," she said in a much softer tone, burnt with a steely edge. "Sherlock Holmes won't know what hit him."

* * *

It had been two weeks since her conversation with Mary. She argued that she couldn't attack him, guns blazing, without an effective plan. Mary rolled her eyes, arms crossed, thoroughly unconvinced as she cited the efficiencies of guerilla style warfare. In truth, Molly was working up the courage to face him. How does one tell off a good looking boy who said you had an orgasm in class?

News of The Happening spread through the school as quickly as phone numbers could be dialed.

At first, people tittered at the idea of the no filter, rebel without a cause. They thought he was brilliant for what he did, considering that he was a new student. Somehow, the fact that he could not give two shits about anyone made everyone flock to him in hordes. They approached him in the hallways, greeting him with high fives and variants of "Awesome!"

In the beginning, Sherlock didn't react – or if he did it was a subtle head tilt, or raised eyebrow. But when he flexed his brilliance for a first hand account, when he picked out details on their person, said things that even their own mothers didn't know about them with that calculating coldness in his eyes, the people turned on him. The novelty of having such a brilliant mind in their midst was waning.

Sherlock Holmes, in two short weeks, had managed to change his public image from something akin to Joseph Stalin, revolutionary, to Joseph Stalin, tyrant.

And so, today would be the day, Molly decided.

Usually, he gave her a little nod of acknowledgement before sitting down in history class. And usually, Molly floundered for an appropriate reaction before realizing that it was too late to give one. So she told herself that she wouldn't react, wouldn't look up, when he made the now familiar journey from the front of the class, down the aisle of desks, to his spot in front of her.

This was phase one of her three-step counterstrike that consisted of:  
1. The Cold Shoulder  
2. The Attack  
3. The Smug Grin and Badass Walk Away

She was settled at her desk, notebook out and biro twirling in her fingers, when he made his appearance. Seeing the shock of dark curls atop a long pale face, she looked down.

Don't look. Don't look. Don't look.

She turned her head and pretended to look out the window. From the corner of her eyes, she could see the blue swish of the uniform blazers coming down the aisle. The blue swish took his seat and stretched his arms out with a lazy yawn.

Don't look, Molly. You're doing so well.

When Mr. Owens began to speak, drawing the low hum of pre-class chatter to a halt, Molly positively beamed.

Phase one was complete.

She jotted the date down in the corner of her notebook, drawing a little smiley face beneath it. Grinning, she looked up to copy what the teacher was writing on the chalkboard and found herself inexplicably face to face with Sherlock Holmes.

Her smile faltered.

"Hi. Could I perhaps borrow a biro or a pencil from you? I seem to have forgot mine," he said. He was wearing the most dazzling smile, his clear blue eyes sparkling.

"Oh. Um," She shook her head to clear it of wandering thoughts. Okay, so phase one was a bit of a dud. "Yeah, sure." She rummaged through her bag, grabbing her spare pen and handing it to him.

"Thanks," he said. He winked at her with a lopsided grin and made a clicking noise with his tongue. Thankfully, he quickly spun back around as she felt her face grow warm.

Molly propped her head up with her right hand, seeming, for all the world, to be concentrating on Mr. Owen's lively account of Otto Von Bismarck and the role he played in pre World War One tensions. When in reality, she was trying to cover her reddening cheeks from Mary's eyes.

She said a silent prayer of thanks for the shrill chime that sounded through the intercom. Mr. Owens was still trying to get a point across, but quite frankly, since the pen exchange, Molly Hooper had not been paying attention. Mary pushed her forward towards him, telling her to get it over with. Grateful for the hustle and bustle of students that served as her cover, she hastily stuffed her notebook in her bag and tailed Sherlock's receding figure.

When calling his name in the packed hallway proved to be a fruitless task, she wormed her way through the crowd, with small excuse me's and pardon me's to catch up to him. She reached him just in time to witness Connor Poole, a year thirteen student and resident womanizer, bump into him.

"Oy! Watch where you're going, arsewipe," Connor shouted. He had his arm around his current girlfriend – Heather Something or other – and a scowl on his face. "Apologize! You hit my girl."

Sherlock stopped and turned on the spot slowly. He stared at Connor with a tilt to his head.

"I hardly think your walking backwards and slamming into _me_ merits my apology," He began. He turned to Heather. "But, in any case, I do apologize. I'm sorry you have to spend your time with this fake."

"What the bloody hell are you goin' on about?" Connor detached himself from the girl next to him and stepped up to Sherlock. Eye to eye, he poked a finger to Sherlock's chest when recognition dawned on him. "Oh, you're the freak that everyone's been talkin' about, eh? Go on then, freak, have at it. Tell me something about me. I dare you."

At this point, a small crowd had formed around the ruckus, as crowds were wont to do. But a strange crowd this one was – silent, waiting for Sherlock's response. Sherlock eyed the faces around him then fixed his gaze back on Connor. He scanned him from tip to toe for all of five seconds before his lips let out a low chuckle. With his hands in his pockets as he rocked on the balls of his feet, he looking down to his loafers then up towards the ceiling.

"Oh, you don't really want me to," He smiled. "Believe me. I'm doing you a favor."

Incensed, Connor pushed him with both hands. He stumbled backwards but regained his footing after a step. Molly was inches from his back. Had he fallen, he would have toppled onto her and quite frankly, she didn't think she could have caught him without prior warning.

"Come off it," Connor growled. "Do it! Or are you all talk and no show?"

Sherlock tugged his blazer forward indignantly, righting it. He folded his hands behind his back and slowly circled the other boy. With a predatory glare in his icy eyes, he began his observations.

"Alright," he started harshly. "I'll play the game. Four things give you away. First, your shoes are from Crockett & Jones, a posh brand, one that your family clearly cannot afford otherwise you wouldn't be going to a state school like this one. But it's not from the new collection, so that means you saved up, probably from your job at the fish and chips place – oh yes, that's obvious, too, you've got the oil burns on your hands to prove it – and from whatever Christmas money you get, and bought yourself a second hand pair. That's fine and well, all great men have great shoes and you'd like to think yourself among their ranks. Second, your appearance. Your blazer and button down are neatly starched and ironed, as are your trousers, but they've been re-hemmed – your older brother previously owned them, of course. You are clean-shaven and have very recently had a haircut. The tan line on the back of your neck indicates that you regularly have your hair trimmed. Evidently, you think appearances are important and you do your best to keep them up, as if you've a role to play. And third, this girl here is your third girlfriend since the start of the school year, undoubtedly by the way these two other girls –" He pointed at two faces in the crowd. " – are staring at you with such sentiment. You ended it with them. Not difficult to figure out why."

Molly heard two distinctly female gasps of outrage coming from her right. Sherlock stopped his verbal assault with a smug expression.

"So what?" Connor asked after a pause. None of the things Sherlock listed seemed to phase him. Molly couldn't figure out why they should, either.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock replied. "I did say four things didn't I? Sorry, nearly forgot. Number four, you've been glancing at Jimmy Atwater – " Sherlock angled his head towards the tall year twelve boy that was a lock on their school's rugby team. "Every, oh I don't know," he looked at his watch. "About every twenty seconds or so? And he looks positively worried, more worried than your girlfriend. Honestly, this was first thing I noticed, but it makes sense to leave the best for last, doesn't it?"

Sherlock raised his hands, a teacher about to educate his students.

"Simply put, you are in a relationship with Mr. Atwater," he finished with a cruel curl of his lips. "And have been for quite sometime. The girls were merely your beard. So in conclusion? Gay."

"The fuck you said about me?" Connor spat out. His face was dangerously red, and Molly noticed his hands were balled into shaking fists at his side. He stepped up to Sherlock, their noses almost touching. "Fucking say that again and I'll bash your face in, freak, and we'll see if you're still as smart then."

Standing his ground, Sherlock looked down his nose at him.

"You are as gay as a daffodil," he sneered. "Word of advice? Own it."

Connor's fist collided brutally onto Sherlock's jaw with a resounding crack, sending him sprawling backwards, flat on his back. He jumped onto Sherlock, slamming onto his chest and threw haphazard punches to his face and chest with both fists. Sherlock struck his palm up towards Connor's nose, distracting him enough to throw him off his torso. Both boys rose to their feet with wobbly legs, disoriented eyes trying to focus on the other.

Amid the jeers and cheers and shouting of the mob, they attacked each other again, one grabbing the other, hurling themselves to the floor. Sherlock's wiry build gave way and he found himself against the floor once more. His arms were pinned beneath Connor's knees. He kicked and bucked, using whatever momentum he could to heave Connor off, to no avail. Blood was starting to trickle from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth.

"STOP IT!" Molly found herself jumping into the fray, trying to cleave the older boy off of him. He wouldn't budge. Catching hold of his flying fist, she pulled it backwards, but he flung his arm towards her and struck her lip. She tasted bile and blood.

"What the devil is going on here?" The reverberating voice of the headmaster brought the fighting to halt. "Get to class, the lot of you!"

Like lightning, the crowd dispersed. Though Molly noticed that Jimmy Atwater glanced backwards as he walked away. _Huh, Sherlock was right._

Connor dropped his hand mid punch and clambered to his feet. Molly extended her hand towards Sherlock to help him up, but he glowered and slapped it away. She would be hurt if he didn't have blood coming from nearly every orifice on his face. He stood, brushing his blazer, now torn at the shoulder, and trousers down. He wiped the blood on his face away with his sleeve.

"The three of you. In my office. Right now," Headmaster Bursnell barked.

"Molly was only trying to stop us, sir, she didn't do anyth –" Sherlock said respectfully.

"I don't care! All I know is that the three of you were scrambling about like cats and dogs! To. My. Office."

They grudgingly followed.

Molly gingerly touched her lip. She brought her hand away to find her fingertips smudged red with her blood. _Better get used to the sight of blood if you want to be a doctor._

The walk to the headmaster's office was silent. When neither Connor nor the headmaster was looking, Molly peeked up towards Sherlock. She caught his eye and she smiled weakly.

"Thank you," she mouthed. He gave her a small nod in response.

His head shot up as if remembering something. He dug his hand into the pocket on the inside of his blazer. Abruptly, he grabbed her hand and placed a thin object in her palm, curling her fingers closed around it.

It was the blue pen she lent him earlier.

"Thank you," he mouthed back with a crooked smile.

* * *

_AN: Sorry for the wait! I meant to update this once a week, but it seems I'm a bit overambitious. _

_This chapter's prompt is also the chapter title. Eventually this will change. _

_Reference that I hid in this one: something Freddie Mercury related.  
__Points for whoever figures it out!_

_Also, sooo much love and thanks to __**Gumi Holmes Lupin**__**, Calicar, **__**Rocking the Redhead**__**, **__**MorbidbyDefault**__**, **__**Kathmak**__**, ThatOneGuest, Phantom white lady of 221b, Lila Nightengale, littylollypop, apedarling**__ and my __**mystery guest**__ for reviewing! You guys really made my day(s). (Plural because I was on a writer's high for a couple of days.)_

_With love, _

_Skya aka EphemeralxEternity_


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